“The sooner the better of course,” broke in Kildare, and he launched into a host of reasons for going immediately, including the wildest statistics about the habits of tigers in winter.  This was quite natural, however, as he was a thorough Irishman and had never seen a tiger in his life.  Mr. Currie Ghyrkins vainly attempted to stem the torrent of his eloquence, but at last pinned him on some erratic statement about tigers moulting later in the year and their skins not being worth taking.  Kildare would have asserted with equal equanimity that all tigers shed their teeth and their tails in December; he was evidently trying to rouse Mr. Ghyrkins into a discussion on the subject of tiger shooting in general, a purpose very easily accomplished.  The old gentleman was soon goaded to madness by Kildare’s wonderful opinions, and before long he vowed that the youngster had never seen a tiger,—­not one in his whole life, sir,—­and that it was high time he did, high time indeed, and he swore he should see one before he was a week older.  Yes, sir, before he was a week older, “if I have to carry you among ’em like a baby in arms, sir, by gad, sir—­I should think so!”

This was all we wanted, and in another ten minutes we were drinking a bumper to the health of the whole tiger-hunt and of Miss Westonhaugh in particular.  Isaacs joined with the rest, and though he only drank some sherbet, as I watched his bright eyes and pale cheek, I thought that never knight drank truer toast to his lady.  Miss Westonhaugh rose and went out, leaving us to smoke for a while.  The conversation was general, and turned on the chase, of course.  In a few minutes Isaacs dropped his cigarette and went quietly out.  I determined to detain the rest as long as possible, and I seconded Mr. Ghyrkins in passing the claret briskly round, telling all manner of stories of all nations and peoples—­ancient tales that would not amuse a schoolboy in America, but which were a revelation of profound wit and brilliant humour to the unsophisticated British mind.  By immense efforts—­and I hate to exert myself in conversation—­I succeeded in prolonging the session through a cigar and a half, but at last I was forced to submit to a move; and with a somewhat ancient remark from Mr. Ghyrkins, to the effect that all good things must come to an end, we returned to the drawing-room.

Isaacs and Miss Westonhaugh were looking over some English photographs, and she was enthusiastically praising the beauties of Gothic architecture, while Isaacs was making the most of his opportunity, and taking a good look at her as she bent over the album.  After we came in, she made a little music at the tuneless piano—­there never was a piano in India yet that had any tune in it—­playing and singing a little, very prettily.  She sang something about a body in the rye, and then something else about drinking only with the eyes, to which her brother sang a sort of second very nicely.  I do not understand much about music, but I thought the allusion to Isaacs’ temperance in only drinking with his eyes was rather pointed.  He said, however, that he liked it even better with a second than when she sang it alone, so I argued that it was not the first time he had heard it.